


Move Along. There’s Nothing Left to See.

by owlettica



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A complex bouquet of misery with notes of Gobblepot and a hint of Gordlock, A wee bit of smut, Alcohol-fueled misery and sorrow, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Drinking, Emotional Repression, Explicit Language, F/M, Guilt, Heavy Drinking, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, Nary a plot to be found, Regret, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Repression, Shame, Survivor Guilt, repressed homosexuality, single malt scotch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 19:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13531290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlettica/pseuds/owlettica
Summary: Jim struggles to adjust to his new role as captain and life without Harvey.This fic takes place following the events of Gotham ep 4x11, “Queen Takes Knight”.(Y’all know the drill: I have no association with Gotham or FOX. Please don’t sue me. I have no money.)





	Move Along. There’s Nothing Left to See.

The GCPD had put the final nails in the Pax Penguina and the Gotham Gazette lauded Gordon as its super cop. Cobblepot was transferred to Arkham barely a week ago. The precinct still buzzed with excitement.

Gordon couldn’t remember a time when his team was more unified, and not just the rookies either. Even homicide and the salty veterans looked more alive. Sure, they were still the same cynical bunch they always were, but their laughter was easier and joking more frequent. Morale was up. Way up. He even received some recent queries from people interested in joining the force. 

It was all he ever wanted (or thought he did). 

Still, it felt strange for Jim to see his name lettered on the very same door he was constantly hauled into for a reprimand.

Gordon finds himself attending public events at the Commissioner’s directive and Mayor Burke’s insistence. Perhaps "attend" isn’t the right word. He _observes_ them. Jim watches from the sidelines, keeping a wary eye on the exits and looking out for suspicious activity. He stands away from the crowds, noting who talks to who. He watches people’s behavior, hoping not to be noticed. When he’s forced to engage with others, Jim plasters on his grim smile and tightly grasps his drink.

During interviews, he thinks of his father. Jim does his best to emulate what he remembers of his public appearances and the way he handled the media, only answering what he must. He punctuates his brief statements and sober assurances with a quick nod.

He gives them, the force and the public what they’ve come to expect from him: a strong captain and an uncompromising leader.

They don’t know it’s a lie, but he does.

Sofia does.

So does Harvey.

_He’s a sham._

Jim is still stunned to find his ass seated in the Captain’s chair.

The force now looks to him for leadership, strength, answers and guidance, yet Jim wants nothing more than to turn to Bullock for those very same things. Sometimes, he opens his desk drawer to look down at Harvey’s service pistol and badge. He recalls their last conversation with melancholy.

_“Harvey.”_

_“I was just… uhh… dropping something off. Oh, I uh… heard you got the Pyg. And Penguin.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“So everything turned out well. You didn’t even need me.”_

_“You got a second? Could we, uh…?”_

_“They, uh… they believe in you. Don’t let ‘em down.”_

It stunned Jim to watch Harvey walk away when he needed him most. He didn’t think things could possibly get worse. That was until he discovered Bullock’s service piece and badge on his desk.

After the initial shock wore off and pang in his gut subsided, Jim stared at them dazed. They sat abandoned. Orphaned.

Just like he felt.

He couldn’t bring himself to pick them up. They weren’t his to touch. They were his partner's.

They were _Harvey’s_.

It felt a lot like the days following the car accident that killed his father (but not him).

After his hospital release and the funeral, he and his mother would happen upon his father’s things: an article of clothing, a forgotten crossword puzzle or incomplete project in the garage. She would manage to keep it together for a little while until her shoulders drew in on themselves. Her face would crumple and her chest would heave. Her strangled cry and tears quickly followed.

The first time it happened, Jim watched paralyzed. Men weren’t supposed to cry —at least his father never did. (Not that he remembered anyway.) He choked back the sorrow rising within him and blinked back the threatening tears. Jim recalled his father’s regular instructions to care for his mother while he was away, but his father always came back.

But he _wasn't_ coming back.

Not _this_ time.

Not _ever_.

He wondered why he didn’t die in the crash but his father did. He wished he could have done something to save him.

Jim hesitantly reached for his mother and clumsily wrapped his arms around her. He tried his best to console her the way he imagined his father might and held her as she shook. Before long, she suddenly collected herself and pulled away from him, wiping her face with a quick sniff. Afterward, she warmly held his cheek and looked lovingly into his eyes. She blinked back tears and assured him with a sad smile.

_“Your father would be so proud of you, James.”_

—

It was Harper’s knock that shook him from the memory. When he came to his senses, he quickly grabbed a file sitting on his desk and used it to cover Harvey’s things before calling her in. Jim listened as she updated him on an open homicide, but found it hard to concentrate. He was still reeling from Harvey’s resignation.

Upon her exit, Jim picked up the file hoping Harvey’s things wouldn’t be there, but they were. He was still numb with disbelief.

_Dad wouldn’t be proud._

Jim swallowed and clenched his jaw. 

—><—

Jim returns home from an event supporting Gotham’s homeless at Mayor Burke’s request. It had been planned for months before Pyg’s gruesome homeless victimization at Sofia Falcone’s fundraiser, but it was now a cause célèbre given recent events. Burke used the opportunity to pledge his support of all Gotham’s citizens, including its poorest. He probably felt Jim’s presence would help bolster his claims.

Gordon never liked attending social events, but he found this one particularly challenging. He was all too aware of the growing divide between the rich and poor, Gotham’s rampant homelessness and increasing poverty. He’d seen the stats on Gotham's rising petty crime and even first hand on the streets before his promotion.

It was hard to stomach Burke’s hollow pledges before Gotham’s elite and the cameras. Jim never heard from the mayor’s office if a hapless victim was homeless or from The Narrows, but they sure as hell wouldn’t allow him to forget a public event or fundraiser. Thankfully, the open bar helped take the edge off.

He tosses his keys on the counter. After removing his badge and service pistol, he loosens his tie and pulls out the bottle of scotch he picked up on the way home. As he opens it, he recalls the first time he showed up at Harvey’s with a fifth of single malt. It was Dalwhinnie. The taller man commented after pulling it out of the bag.

_“Damn it, Jim. This is a Highland.”_

_“Highland scotches are great.”_

_“No, Jim. They aren’t. That Highland crap tastes like medicine. Ever think about a nice Speyside or a Lowland? Haven’t I taught you anything?”_

_“Stop correcting me.”_

_“Stop being wrong.”_

Jim puffs out a small laugh and shakes his head at the fond memory —at least until the pain comes. That’s when he clenches his teeth and pours himself a tall one.

It's the nights at home that are hardest for Jim. He sits alone in his empty apartment. His only companion is his bottle of scotch. Tonight, it’s Oban.

As the evening slowly wears on, Jim’s left alone with his thoughts. When Lee comes to mind, his body still aches for her. He remembers the way she used to look at him when she was the GCPD's medical examiner and they dated. He wistfully recalls her warm smile, her rich laugh and her tender kisses. Nygma still worked for the GCPD and dated Kringle back then.

That was before everything went to shit.

He pours himself another.

Ed killed Kristen, framed him for Pinkney’s murder and Lee lost the baby during his incarceration. He remembers the time he mustered up the courage to finally go see her, only to discover she had moved on. His mind drifts to Lee with Mario and the Tetch Virus. He wonders what might have happened if Carmine hadn’t ordered Zsasz to detain him during their wedding. Jim takes a big swallow.

He remembers coming to in that coffin and injecting himself with the virus. Had it not been for Harvey…

_“You gonna shoot me, Harvey?”_

_“This isn’t you.”_

_“It is.”_

_“Please don’t make me do this.”_

_“This is who I am…who I’ve always been.”_

_“NO. It’s not. Who you are is a choice. It always has been and still is. This is who you are. You’re the best cop I’ve ever worked with… the best friend I’ve ever had.”_

It was Bullock who ultimately saved both Lee and him with the antidotes he slipped under his badge. Jim screws up his face and drinks more.

He desperately wants to forget but only remembers more: he recalls his return to Gotham after his army service. Back then, Jim shared a home with Barbara when they were still engaged before Ogre got a hold of her. He was too late to save her. He recalls working for Essen when he first met Harvey —and Oswald.

_Oswald._

_“This is the fool that snitched to Montoya and Allen. Falcone wants you to walk him to the end of the pier and put a bullet in his head. Then everybody knows you’re with the program….This is war! We’re at war with scumbags like him! Sometimes in war, we have to do bad things to do good, right? So do you do this bad thing, or die? Or maybe your girl dies? I might be lackadaisical, but that’s not a tough call.”_

Jim remembers walking the bloodied and battered Cobblepot to the pier at gunpoint. Oswald hobbled along and pleaded for mercy.

_“Please, Mr. Gordon, just let me live. I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll be your slave for life. Listen to me. There’s a war coming, a terrible war. Falcone is losing his grip and his rivals are hungry. There will be chaos, rivers of blood in the street. I know it. I can see it coming. I’m clever that way and I can help you. I can be your spy —.”_

_“SHUT UP! Turn around.”_

_“For God’s sake, have mercy.”_

_“Don’t ever come back to Gotham.”_

Jim recalls the sound of the gun blast and pushing Penguin into the water. Well, he wasn’t Penguin then anyway.

Jim pours another tall one.

He’s assaulted by memory after memory. Most consist of Harvey, Oswald or Lee. Sometimes, it's Barbara. Valerie comes to mind. When the siren Sofia Falcone makes an appearance, he pushes her out of his mind and tosses back another.

He recalls his time in the army. He thinks of one guy in particular: Andrei Petcu. He went by Andrew. He was small and lithe with a nervous temperament. He had pale eyes and black hair.

There were times Jim caught his eyes roaming over Andrew’s body or found himself staring at his mouth. Sometimes, Andrew looked at Jim longer than he should. One night, after way too many drinks, Jim found more than his eyes exploring Andrew’s body.

They didn’t always drink before their furtive couplings and clandestine trysts. It was wartime.

Jim made it out of there a “war hero”. Andrew didn’t. He never made it out all. Jim couldn’t save him either.

_"Never leave your unit behind.”_

Jim chokes back a sob.

He sloppily reaches for his fifth. Through his haze, he realizes he’s already had about a third of it. He furrows his brow and purses his lips in concentration. The neck of the bottle clinks loudly against his tumbler before he pours himself another, spilling a little. He swears this is the last one, so he makes it a double.

He doesn’t feel the burn anymore. He doesn’t feel much of anything. After sucking down the last of his scotch, he staggers to the bedroom and clips his shoulder on the door frame. He barely manages to remove his trousers without falling before he stumbles into bed.

The room spins, but not too much. If he can just keep his eyes closed, he’ll be okay. He shuts them tight, but finds he’s drunker than he thought. He’s already had plenty to drink, but his misery is bottomless. He tries another distraction.

He conjures the memory of Lee, her dark eyes and the delicious curves of her beautiful body.

Jim reaches inside his boxers to touch himself. He recalls the way she used to give herself over to him completely. He thinks of how the soft skin of her arms brushed his neck and shoulders when she pulled him close. He loved her responsive moans and the way her black hair spilled onto the bed. She cradled him between her thighs and felt like heaven inside.

She was so fucking beautiful. So fucking perfect.

_You never deserved Lee._

Jim tosses himself harder, but he’s too drunk. He finds his erection waning, but persists nonetheless. He finds it hard to concentrate —that is, until Oswald suddenly flashes in his mind.

He pictures Oswald’s green eyes, his raven hair and exquisitely-tailored clothes. He conjures his fiery temper and lightning speed with a snide remark or biting retort. Jim thinks of how much he’d love to knock that smug smile off his face and stuff his smart mouth with his dick.

_Oswald is who you deserve._

He imagines Oswald sucking him. Jim envisions tangling his fingers in that painstakingly-styled black hair and fucking his face until the exquisite pressure proves too much. He hoists him up, yanks open his jacket, reaches under his waistcoat and unfastens his suspenders. Jim impatiently tugs open his trousers and reaches inside to jerk him off before spinning him around and over.

When Jim imagines finger fucking Oswald, he feels a sudden jolt to his shaft. He’s now rock hard. It isn’t long before he visualizes his dick breaching the kingpin. He pictures himself pistoning in and out of him, grabbing his hips and pounding into him mercilessly.

Jim bursts in his hand with a howl.

After he finishes, he blinks incredulously and wipes his hand on his boxers. His heart hammers in his chest and his face feels hot. Jim’s not sure if it’s the booze or the shame. He allows a miserable sob to escape. He rolls over and grabs a pillow. Jim buries his face in it and wails.

He cries for Andrew. He cries for Harvey. He cries for Lee, the baby, Barbara and his dad. He even cries a little for Oswald.

Mostly, he cries for himself.

—><—

The following evening is another late night at the precinct. The bullpen is hopping. It is, after all, a full moon. Jim peers down at the activity from his vantage point. Despite the insanity of it all, everyone appeared to be taking it in stride. Jim returns to his office and closes the door for some quiet, still feeling the effects of the night prior.

He could still scarcely believe how things had changed. No more crime scenes, perp walks or interrogations with Harvey. No more abysmal (or surprisingly incredible) meals in the unlikeliest places with Harvey. Bullock always knew where to eat and who to question. He knew who to lean on and exactly how much pressure to apply.

Harvey knew everyone: their habits, their weaknesses, their relationships. He knew how to tease out their secrets, the same way he teased out the city’s. He knew people like he knew the city. He knew Gotham intimately —the same way he knew Jim. He thinks of Harvey’s confidence and comfort in his own skin.

Jim remembers their stakeouts with fondness. The smell of the car always changed depending on what they ate: coffee and donuts, burgers, pizza, Chinese, falafel. What never changed was Harvey’s scent: his leather jacket, his aftershave, his musk. He remembers how Harvey would lean to one side and the way his quads flexed beneath his slacks. He thinks of the grey in his beard and rasp of his voice. Jim remembers the veins and freckles on the backs of his well-practiced hands as they unscrewed his flask.

No one ever got closer to him than Harvey.

He was a friend, a brother _—a partner._

Harvey’s words still rang in his ears.

_“The way I see it, everything that’s happened, down to Don Falcone lying in that box, comes from you deciding months ago to go after Penguin. This is all on you. So finish what you started.”_

Harvey was right.

_Again._

All he had to do was wait for Penguin to make a mistake and go after Sofia. Despite it all, Jim can’t shake the nagging suspicion there was something off about the entire thing.

Did Penguin really make a mistake? He thought he knew Oswald. Surely he wouldn’t be that careless —or heartless. He still couldn’t fathom that Penguin would take out a kid. The man was a lot of things, but a child murderer? Really?

Jim mulls over what appeared to be Oswald's genuine shock at Zsasz’s abrupt surrender and refusal to take the rap for a kid murder. Mere moments prior Penguin smugly prompted him to give it up on the boy’s location. _Why would he do that if he killed him? Was this the same kid he wanted to keep safe from Pyg?_ It just didn’t add up.

Even Zsasz’s behavior was uncharacteristic. Spontaneous surrender from the assassin who “never stops”? No breezy nonchalance, predatory menace or easy arrogance. Zsasz was stiff, grim and tight-lipped.

_“Jim. Not now.”_

Gordon couldn’t pinpoint what bothered him most about the whole thing, but the more he thought about it, the less it sat right with him. If he and Harvey could just —.

He looks out his office at Bullock’s empty desk. Despite requests for the workspace, the area where they sat together remained empty. He never filled them, hoping (by some miracle) Harvey might change his mind and come back. It was the same reason he never reported his resignation to the Commissioner. 

Just then, Harper walks up. He waves her in before she can knock.

“Captain. It’s kinda late, isn’t it? You were already here with first shift when I came in.”

“I’ve gotta few things to square away before I —.”

“Sir, with all due respect, it’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow. We got this. Besides, whatever it is, I think they’ll cut you some slack. After all, you did nail Cobblepot. Besides, you look like you could use the rest.”

Jim wryly responds. 

“Gee, thanks.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender in response to her raised eyebrow and tilted head. Jim grabs a few things from his desk, picks up his jacket and puts it on as he follows her out. He informs the shift leader as he heads for the parking lot. 

—

Not long after, Jim finds himself before a familiar door cradling a bottle of Aberlour A'bunadh (a Speyside). He takes a deep breath and reaches in his pocket when the door opens.

Harvey stands before him, swirling the booze in his tumbler. He casually takes a swig and stoically regards Jim.

“Harvey.”

“Jim.”

Jim forces a smile. He looks down and scratches behind his ear before looking back up at Bullock.

“You were wrong.”

Harvey’s jaw clenches and his face hardens. He replies indignantly.

“Yeah? About what?”

Jim blinks and swallows hard before he croaks.

“I can’t do this without you, Harv. I need you.”

He pulls Harvey’s badge and service pistol out of his pocket and offers them to his partner.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the following dialogue prompt: “Stop correcting me.” “Stop being wrong.” 
> 
> Well, maybe not just that.
> 
> Truth be told, I really wanted to explore Jim a little bit. I previously wrote a short Harvey fic, but don't feel I gave him the attention he deserves. Bullock is an incredible character who is woefully underused. I’m still upset that Gordlock (my favorite work married couple) is on the rocks as of 4x11. I want my daddies to kiss and make up. 
> 
> On a more serious note, I feel Bullock really humanizes Gordon. Harvey is far more self aware and understands people far better than Jim ever has. I feel he not only makes Jim a better cop, but a better man. I think Jim puts on a person suit and pretends to be a real person because he’s profoundly broken from his father's death, survivor’s guilt, the war, etc. Bullock not only forces him to be a “real” person, but actually shows him how to be. (Yes, fellow Fannibals, I just made a Hannibal reference in my Gotham fic notes.)
> 
> And don’t get me started on his reactions to and feelings about Oswald, hunty. We'll be here all day.
> 
> Y’all have likely figured out I enjoy scotch (and prefer the Highland whiskies). The Aberlour A'bunadh is a nod to the lovely and talented irisbleufic. She writes great stuff. Go read it. (I’m raising my glass at you, sistah! I hope to try your Speyside recommendation soon, mamacita.)
> 
> I love pairing fics with songs. [ Radiohead’s fantastic “Gagging Order”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJznVEh6Dyg) actually gave me my very first niggling to write Jim Gordon and provided my fic’s title.
> 
> “I know what you're thinking  
> But I'm not your property  
> No matter what you say  
> No matter what you say
> 
> Move along, there's nothing left to see  
> Just a body, nothing left to see
> 
> A couple more for breakfast  
> A little more for tea  
> Just to take the edge off  
> Just to take the edge off
> 
> Move along, there's nothing left to see  
> Just a body, pouring down the street...”
> 
> Lastly, I had no beta reader. All mistakes are my own. Holler at me if you see anything requiring my attention, or just because you wanna. I love meeting new folks!
> 
> For those who made it all the way to the bottom of this thing, I can’t thank you enough. I still consider myself fairly new to the fic-writing process, so thank you kindly. Really. It really means a lot.
> 
> Love, peace and chicken grease, y’all.


End file.
